


The Virtue of Privacy

by Kisatsel



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Character Study, Come Eating, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8067661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/pseuds/Kisatsel
Summary: Alexander squirmed. “Tell me your secrets, John,” he gasped into John’s mouth. John sucked at his lips. “You’ve been hoarding them. Spill.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this fic: mention of suicidal thoughts and unhealthy coping mechanisms, brief use of some violent imagery.
> 
> This is set immediately after Laurens is released from being a prisoner of war. I chose not to focus on infidelity which means there's no mention of Eliza. (But if you want optional extra heartbreak and to loathe Hamilton you can read this fic as taking place a month before his wedding.)

He rode at a fast clip, and reached Washington’s headquarters in under a week. John’s father, sensing that to delay any longer would be intolerable, had slipped a handful of coins into John’s outstretched hand and told him to find a good horse and get himself to where he was required, and John had closed his fingers with pathetic gratitude. They exchanged all the necessary platitudes upon parting. With each mile that passed, each night that he spent a free man once more, his spirits lightened, and when the heavens opened and cold rain began to pelt his face he threw his head back and laughed. 

It was a cold November evening with traces of rain still in the air when John clattered down the drive towards the mansion, the silk of his jacket soaked through and rubbing at his neck as he hurried from the stables to the door. Inside he found a dim hallway, panelled walls and high ceilings, the odd, dual character of a grand building under friendly occupation. He didn’t like to think of the men huddling in their wooden huts down in the soldier’s encampment, but all the same it was good of Colonel Theunis to offer his home; god knew they had earned a few days of comfort. 

John took the staircase two steps at a time and began swinging open doors. On his third try he struck gold: a fire flickering in the grate. A map pinned to the wall, clusters of pins all along the coast. The war room. A small nest of red dots in Charleston, Pennsylvania. A man was sat at the small round table, his dark head bent over his papers and his hand scurrying back and forth across a page. 

John stood in the doorway. “Hey,” he said. 

The head jerked up, and Alexander turned to face him. “John.” He laid down his quill and held John’s gaze, those big eyes that gleamed out of his shadowed face. A man could go mad off a stare like that. John’s bloodless heart, drained by confinement and enforced passivity of its habitual passions, love and rage alike, began to beat again in double-time. 

Nothing between them but a few short paces. John went over to the table, throat dry, and thought of sailors who walk shakily, stumbling across dry land after a voyage of months or years. 

“Alexander.” He leaned over and rested a hand on the back of the chair. “What’s been going on?”

“Oh, it’s chaos as usual,” Alexander said lightly; John could hear the rough scrape of exhaustion in his voice. “You missed Lafayette by a week. You should write to him. He told me to embrace my dear Laurens for me, when they finally return him to us.” Alexander tilted his head and affected an accent as bad as his French was good, and then stood abruptly and shoved his chair back, turned and wrapped his arms tightly around John’s waist. John held him back and breathed him in. 

“Was that all from Lafayette?” John asked. Alexander’s breath was warm on his neck. 

“Yeah,” Alexander said, “though I should’ve crushed your ribs more. For verisimilitude. You know he’s a monster. And this one’s just me.” He gripped John again, fingers digging into his back like claws.

“You came back,” Alexander whispered. John said nothing, just nodded into his shoulder. 

Only when they threatened to keel over and send the inkwell flying did John force an inch of space. He wrapped an arm easily around Alexander’s neck and ruffled his hair. Alexander extracted himself and tried to level a glare at John. They seated themselves, chairs pulled close together. John sighed quietly. There was no question of finishing for the night when the pile of papers stood this high. 

He looked over the stack. Translations; documents to be copied; general orders to be sent out. “Twenty-five, and still working as a clerk,” Alexander muttered. John peered over at his letter, and watched him sign George Washington’s name with a weary flourish.

“Oh sure,” he said. “There’s no real power in sending out orders to generals, is there?” 

An incredulous eyebrow tilt. “Power without any recognition,” Alexander said didactically, “vanishes like smoke, and how can we achieve anything when the General’s wishes are ignored? A field command, direct communication with your men--”

“Sarcasm,” John cut in, “it’s called sarcasm, Alexander, am I gonna have to reeducate you? What have you been doing these months?”

Alexander elbowed him, sending ink splattering from the tip of John’s quill. “As if I’d need your help with that,” he said, with such exquisite scorn that John turned away to hide a grin. “Come on, I know you agree with me here. Washington’s holding out on me. Can’t cope without his favorite ventriloquist.” He scrawled the date viciously on a fresh sheet of paper. 

“You’ll see action soon enough. I’ll ask him when I see him,” John promised. “After he agrees to send me south.” 

“He’ll send you.” 

“He better. Since my grand plan’s been forgotten already, to everyone’s relief,“ John said with some bitterness. God, but it felt good to vent. 

“We won’t let them forget,” Alexander said fiercely. 

They exchanged a series of looks, and wrote together in silence as the candle burned down to a stump. John’s fingers ached from the unfamiliar strain, and every jostle of Alexander’s arm against his sent a set a tremor of anticipation running over his skin. The words took form black and wet on the page, and John thought that perhaps there might be an end to his store of bitterness, that he would wring himself clean of it drop by drop and devote himself to the ideals he had vowed to defend.

Eventually, he set down his quill and put his hand on Alexander’s wrist. “Enough work. Come to bed. Where are we sleeping?” 

“I’m rooming with Tench. He’s out on an errand. Expected to return by tomorrow at the earliest.” Alexander said. He scanned his letter critically, tossed it onto the table and massaged his temple. 

“You mean we’re alone,” John said slowly. “We get the room to ourselves.”

“Just you and me.” Alexander’s smile was full of wicked intent. 

“Tilghman’s a good guy.” 

“Our guardian angel.” 

John snorted. “Least angelic angel I ever saw. I don’t care. I love him.” They had crossed to the door and paused on the threshold. 

“Sure you don’t want us to swap places?” Alexander said, leaning back against the door.  
.  
John pulled a face, then took hold of his shoulders and pressed him against the wood. “You know what I want,” he said, low, into Alexander’s mouth. Washington was probably sleeping next door. Jesus. “You, in a bed. Gonna raise any objections?” 

Alexander shivered, shook his head and pressed back against him. John let him go. Their fingers brushed against each other as they walked down the hallway. 

The sheets were soft: a real bed, not a miserly bunk or a blanket thrown on the floor. Heavy curtains to draw around them. John took off his shirt and threw it on the floor. He could feel a hot flush creeping across his cheeks. 

Alexander sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, and regarded John. “Two letters,” he said thoughtfully. 

“Oh, god,” John said. He took Alexander’s hand and kissed his two fingers, held up accusatorially, one by one. 

Alexander was not to be deterred. “How many months was it again?”

“Too many.” 

“Mmm. Too many months, too few words.” Alexander’s voice remained stern, though he tilted his head to give better access when John crawled closer and began kissing his neck. 

“It’s always too few words for you,” John said, between kisses. “The concept of too many words doesn’t even exist in your world.”

“Not from you.” Alexander turned to kiss John’s lips, nip at him impatiently. On this, at least, they were in accord. “Give me some now. Make up for it.”

“Oh,” John said breathlessly, “I’ll make up for it alright.” He pushed Alexander’s shoulders down and spread him out - god, a warm body beneath him, a man, eager and wanting him, and not anyone but _Alexander_ \- and nipped at an earlobe. 

Alexander squirmed. “Tell me your secrets, John,” he gasped into John’s mouth. John sucked at his lips. “You’ve been hoarding them. Spill.” 

“Fine.” John sat up. “Fine. I missed you, I couldn’t stand it, sitting out the war, sitting there, wasting - just wasting away. Wasting everything. They said we’d be there till it was over.” He was pushing Alexander down into the mattress, he realized, pinning him hard enough that he couldn’t move other than to press his hips up. 

“But you made it out.” Alexander had stilled, was looking up at him with his shining eyes. “You’re here. You took good care of yourself. Mostly.” His gaze drifted over John’s torso, lingering on the faint purple remains of a boot-print. 

John thought of the various means he’d employed, in the absence of friends who knew his ways, to deal with the problem of being both alive and conscious, and grimaced. “Who are you, my late mother? Don’t answer that.” 

“Fine.” Alexander wriggled himself free and yanked at John’s breeches. “Come on. Fuck me hard enough and I’ll forgive you your sins.” 

“With only spit?” Alexander shrugged. He was half hard, though John hadn’t yet touched his cock. John smirked. “Ask me nicely,” he said, straining to keep his voice low, “and I’ll let you suck me off.”

Alexander parted his lips and swallowed. “Please,” he said. It came out a little sour. John lay down next to him and ran a finger over his lips. “Please let me suck you off, John. Make me. Make me hoarse tomorrow.” 

John groaned. “I missed you.” He propped his head up and spread his legs to make a space for Alexander. 

“I know. You told me.” Alexander cradled John’s cock in his hand, the gentlest he had touched him since his return, and kissed him there, slowly, lazily. 

John stretched a hand down to thumb open Alexander’s mouth and then took himself in hand and fed it in steadily until Alexander’s throat was stoppered. It was an obscene sight, the like of which pervaded his dreams with cruel regularity, but it was not a dream, neither the dark soft hair beneath his hands nor the wet sucking sounds nor the silky heat on his cock. John stuck his other hand in his mouth and dug his teeth in to catch the clamor building inside of him. 

Alexander slid up and butted his head against John’s hand until John pressed him down harder and began to thrust upwards. Alexander took it with a groan. John squeezed his eyes tightly closed, tried to catch his breath, then opened them again. Alexander had one hand on his cock, gripping himself; he paused and flicked his eyes up to cast a pleading glance, resumed touching himself when John nodded frantically at him. 

“Stop,” John said. “Stop, I need you--” He tugged Alexander impatiently off and tossed him down against the sheets. In his haste the bed shuddered and jarred and knocked against the wall. Alexander laughed suddenly. His eyes were wet. John spread a hand over Alexander’s mouth and rubbed off against his belly, his smooth skin. He was muttering, words that he kept a tight hold of knocked clean out of him: “Love you, fucking love you.” His climax overtook him, and went on and on, painting Alexander’s stomach. 

John dropped himself down, head resting on Alexander’s thigh, and ran a hand through the mess of come. Alexander whimpered, his cock jutting upwards, dark red and pretty, dripping at the head. “Quiet,” John said. He rubbed his cheek against Alexander’s cock; it twitched against him. John wrapped a hand around and took him in his mouth, slid down and sucked hard, and swallowed when Alexander’s release flooded his mouth. 

He let the cock slip from his mouth when it was soft, and moved to lick over Alexander’s belly.

“I love you,” Alexander said. John didn’t look up. Kept lapping. His own taste and Alexander’s mingling in his mouth. He hadn’t-- He’d forgotten that it was like this, even when this had been all he thought of. 

“John.” John raised his head. “Don’t hide.” 

“Let me be. Let me enjoy you.” Alexander stroking over John’s back while he finished cleaning him up. When it was done, John lay down next to him and kissed him messily with sticky lips. 

“They’ll never know,” Alexander said wryly. 

John laughed a little wildly. “If anyone asks, you had a bad dream.”

“It was awful.” Alexander pulled him closer. “I was shouting and kicking. You had to hold me.”

John felt in his bones all the new aches from his hard ride to the mansion, the old aches from his motley collection of bruises. He put his mouth to Alexander’s ear. 

“Remember when we made a stop at Poughkeepsie with the general, you, me, and Laf, where the river ran by the inn, and we waded right in, up to our waists, and it was fucking - so cold it hurt to breathe, and you dived right under and came out spitting water like a fish, and we had to haul you out and wrap you in blankets, you were useless for the rest of the night and sulked when the general forbade you from even transcribing his letters.” 

Alexander’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Yeah?”

John shrugged, sheets sliding against his bare skin. “Nothing. I almost forgot how much bullshit you make me talk.”

He thought of those six wasted months, shut up with a group of officers, endless card games and whiskey and rowdy battle tales, letters coming in periodically with another pat on the head, another _sit tight, Laurens, stay patient_ , while the British made themselves comfortable in Charleston and the war was fought elsewhere and he exhausted himself each day just sitting still, destroying neither himself nor the building that housed him nor the enemy officers whiling away the days and crowing to each other. 

He thought of drinking until the body purged itself, of the visceral satisfaction of yanking out a bayonet and watching a body slump at your feet. 

“I love you,” Alexander said. “Don’t forget it.” He arranged himself around John until the tangle of limbs was to his satisfaction and then deepened his breathing, his usual trick. He would be asleep within minutes. 

It was almost too warm to be tangled up together with the blankets pulled up, but John did not move to pull them down. He pressed his hot forehead to Alexander’s skin and thought of tomorrow, and then he thought of nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Almost nothing in this fic is historically accurate, BUT if you want to see a replica of the war room in the mansion where Washington made his headquarters in November 1780, wikipedia has a [picture](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/ac/War_Room.JPG/800px-War_Room.JPG). This was very exciting to me. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, it would make my day if you let me know in a comment! I'm kiwisatsuma on tumblr.


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